


You Know the World Can See Us

by wearethewitches



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Amnesia, Body Dysphoria, Butterfly Effect, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Feminist Themes, Gen, House Stark, Ned Stark Lives, Not Canon Compliant, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, POV Multiple, POV Ned Stark, Politics, Robb Stark Lives, Self-Insert, Strong Female Characters, accidental war, baker si, but they're HELLA lucky, feral stark children, frankly this SI is a disaster, low wisdom high charisma si, no canals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:41:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23188672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: Oh, myhead.When an SI wakes up in Ned Stark's body, they have to navigate interpersonal relationships, secrets lost and a king whose politics don't really line up with the morality of the new Warden of the North; with a new Lord Stark more interested in baking than leading on the loose, but with the power to make world-changing decisions, Westeros better watch out.
Relationships: Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Ned Stark & Original Character(s)
Comments: 68
Kudos: 291
Collections: A Collection of Beloved Inserts





	1. Chapter 1

Oh, my _head._

The pain is not manageable. It’s the type of pain you get with your worst migraine, where the rest of the world is invisible as you screw your eyes shut and every minute movement of your muscles is an attempt to make the pain lessen; but it only gets worse, instead.

I don’t feel like myself. My body is heavy and weighted. Gravity is all wrong – and it’s too warm. I don’t know how much time passes, but the pain makes me feel delirious. Eventually, I start to hear voices and am able to actually listen to them. A woman is there, talking with an edge to her voice like glass about to crack – I don’t know who she is, but she cares, obviously.

There is a man, too. He sounds calm and familiar. A doctor, I think. It’s him I wake up to, when I can actually open my eyes.

He’s old. He’s also dressed in a monk’s habit. _Very unusual,_ I ponder, watching his eyes fill with relief.

“Lord Stark, you're finally awake. It has been many weeks since your fall.”

“Fall?” I croak, realising my throat is dry. The man – monk? – shushes me, quiet as he brings me water to drink. I attempt to sit up and realise quickly that it will be an endeavour just to get the blankets off…

I draw my hand over the ‘blankets’.

“Lady Sansa insisted,” the man sighs, sounding fond. “Lady Catelyn could not deny her. She worked quite hard on it.”

“It is a patchwork fur,” I say, somewhat dumbly. “She…made this? For me?”

“Indeed, my lord,” the man chuckles – but though I feel lost, have no idea where I am or what happened to me or who this ‘Sansa’ is, I feel grateful to her. She _made_ me this fur, had obviously sewn together each ragged end. It’s a conglomerate of different textures and shapes – obviously cut-offs, reused and recycled into a fur blanket. The thick threading is uneven, but whoever Sansa is, I know she sewed every last one.

I clutch it tight. “I love it,” I say fiercely, not expecting the radiant smile from the older man’s face – and nor do I expect the impossibly low growl emanating from my own goddamn mouth.

“As you should, my lord. The little lady will be pleased. Should I summon your wife?”

My eyes widen.

“I have a _wife?_ ”

* * *

It had been a trying time since Ned fell from his horse. Catelyn has been doing her utmost to keep the North from panicking – already she has had a letter from King Robert saying he is riding for Winterfell. Hearing that the Warden of the North is mortally wounded does not inspire peace.

And the children. _Oh,_ Catelyn thinks morosely, tears stinging at her eyes. _How will I explain it to them?_ Maester Luwin has already expressed his doubts that Ned will live through the nights for much longer. How can Catelyn explain death to her children? How can Robb be expected to take on the mantle of Warden of the North? He is only a boy, not yet eight years of age.

If Ned were to die…Bran is only a year old and Arya, three. Neither will remember him.

Approaching his sickroom, Catelyn expects there to be no change. But the guards are anxious, leaning their ears towards the doors and muttering to each other. She narrows her eyes.

“What is going on here?”

They glance her way, far from startled as they raise their weapons – they are still on guard, at least – but they do not answer, only looking between each other and the door.

Catelyn goes to ask them again when she hears it: muffled voices. For a moment she is frozen, wondering if her children have escaped their Septa, but no, she _knows_ those voices. Maester Luwin is in there and the other voice…

“How long has he been awake?”

The guards fidget, the one closest to her whispering, “Over an hour now, my lady. But it’s not a good thing. It might be wrong, but we’ve been listening…it don’t seem like Lord Stark remembers much of the world, Lady Stark.”

Catelyn gasps, a hand flying to her heart, where it pounds harsh against her chest. She edges closer, craning her ears.

“ _-are, my lord._ ”

“ _Stop calling me that, please. Please don’t. I’m not a lord. I can’t be a lord!_ ” Catelyn recognises her Ned, but she has never heard this- this _desperation_ in him, before. He has always taken to lordship with a solemnity she could never emulate. “ _Luwin, I don’t want this. How can I go out there? I can’t pretend like I know what I’m doing, I- I don’t even know my own name. What did you say before? Edward?_ ”

“ _Eddard, though most call you Ned, Ned Stark. This is not something you can run from, my lord. You would be leaving a tremendous burden upon the shoulders of your lady wife, who would act as regent for young Lord Robb – and furthermore, you have nowhere else to go._ ”

Catelyn claps a hand over her mouth. Ned wants to leave?

“ _Robb – he’s the son you mentioned. My son._ ” Ned replies, voice quieter than before. “ _Sansa’s brother. Sansa made this blanket for me._ ”

“ _Yes, my lord. Robb, Jon, Sansa, Arya and Brandon are all your children. Theon Greyjoy is your ward._ ” Luwin lists them with a patience Catelyn knows well. “ _And they have missed you terribly._ ”

“ _They have missed their father. I am not him. I can’t- I **cannot** lie to them and say I love them. That’s what real parents do. It’s wrong. Everything is wrong. I’m not that man – I’m not this Ned and I can’t pretend. I can’t replace him._”

Luwin sighs. “ _Well, at least your morals are the same._ ”

Catelyn cannot take any more. She backs away, feeling insecure and heartbroken. Ned does not remember their children. Ned does not remember his love for them. The children will know – the children will see. Even Jon, the bastard, will be roughly affected by this change. All he knows in the world is Ned, for Catelyn will surely never show him the kindness meant for his trueborn siblings and it is by far time for Robb to cease playing with him.

Wandering away, Catelyn finds herself back amongst her court of ladies – daughters and wives of Northern lords and the highly ranked in Winterfell. Hunna Karstark frowns at her distraught expression.

“My lady, whatever is the matter?”

Catelyn swallows her pride. “Ned does not remember anything. His memories are lost. Luwin seems to be supplying him with knowledge, but I heard-” her voice cracks, a sob falling loose from her chest. Hunna startles, arm winding around her waist as she draws Catelyn into an embrace.

“Oh, my lady,” she says in a hush, Catelyn feeling hands on her back and shoulders from Wren of Clan Flint, Jenna Cassel, Sandice Quagg and Chelly Condon. “Are you certain?”

“Certain as can be!” Catelyn cries. “He does not know who the children are!”

Her ladies exchange heavy glances full of uncertainty, before returning to consoling their lady.

* * *

I survey the papers, picking them up with delicate hands. I don’t want to damage them. They look old, weathered – and messy. I have to squint in the candlelight to read the minute scrawl of Eddard Stark.

Maester Luwin has been a great help the past week and a half I’ve been cooped up in this room. He won’t let me out or let anyone in to see me, but it’s for the best; they wouldn’t want to see an amnesiac Ned Stark and _I_ , personally, wouldn’t want to meet anyone thinking I _am_ Ned Stark.

Oh, golly-golly, this will be fun, I’m _sure._

My sarcasm is top-notch. Maester Luwin has half a heart-attack whenever I make a joke. Apparently, Ned Stark was weighed down by grief and duty, something I can understand. His siblings, bar one – who apparently exiled himself to the mysterious ‘ _Wall’_ , capital letter W – are all dead and his wife, _my_ wife, is his big brother’s former fiancée.

“The North is humungous,” I mutter, glancing down at the map. Eddard Stark – because I’m Ned, now, which _must_ be some kind of switcheroo dimensional swap, a la Star Trek – didn’t keep a journal or diary, but his notes on local politics are supposed to be historically accurate, for the future reference of his descendants. Handy for me, but not so great when I’m trying to figure out whether he’s using euphemisms or Greatjon Umber _actually_ bet a goat against the Karstark’s for land.

“What the North lacks in resources, it has in land,” Maester Luwin says sagely, as if that makes any sense whatsoever.

“Did we mine it all? Did the farmers not do farmer-things to make sure the dirt was alright?” I ask bluntly, wondering if I’ve inherited a giant plot of land that is completely, entirely useless. Luwin frowns.

“No,” he says, making me second-guess myself. “The North simply does not have those resources.”

“Are you sure?” I mutter, not quite rhetorically. It’s impossible for a piece of land _this big_ to have nothing in the ground. Maybe it’s like Scotland – lots of land, all scenery, with barely any people to populate it. But Scotland still had resources, they just chose not to mine them, half the time. I’m not a farmer or an architect – I don’t know what to do with any of this. But squinting at the map of Westeros, I figure I might be onto something, something else entirely.

I think my niece used to read about this world.

The name of this place – ‘Winterfell’ – and my own name – ‘Stark’ – sound dreadfully familiar. I can almost picture Susanne telling me about this family. It’s enough of a stretch that I can nod thoughtfully when Maester Luwin says things, occasionally; I think I’m fooling him into believing I’m remembering though, which is cruel on my part.

Genuinely, I don’t believe I can pass as the real Eddard Stark. We’re too different. For one, I’m not used to male genitalia – which is an interesting experience in itself, when I’m not thinking about it too hard. Another is that I’m from a modern world. There might be central heating in Winterfell, but their sewage system is still ‘shit in a chamberpot and add sawdust’.

I put the parchment down, groaning and rubbing my eyes. My migraine hasn’t fully gone away and I’m getting better at ignoring it, but it’s still there, a metaphorical pain in the neck. Luwin is worried it won’t ever go away. He hasn’t given me ‘milk of the poppy’ to reduce my suffering though, which I have keenly deduced is opium, so that’s a relief. It seems that Westeros is all about either living with pain or reducing it with high-class drugs. Not much different to my world then, I suppose.

A knock comes from the door. I glance up, watching Luwin crack it open to address whomever is outside. I hear a child.

“Maester Luwin, can we see Father, yet?”

Luwin shakes his head, chain of links clinking. “No, I’m afraid not. Your father is still recovering.”

“Is it true then? He doesn’t remember _anything?_ ”

“I’m afraid so, child.”

I crane my neck, but Luwin is in the way. It’s a boy, I think, but which one? Who could it be? I guess Robb, maybe – he’s my eldest son, apparently. It could be Theon or Jon, my other son not of my wife – which Luwin was not willing to talk about when I asked, making me suspicious; what had I done? – or even one of the girls. Sansa. Arya.

Wait, no – Arya is three. She wouldn’t be able to speak so well as the child outside. Not Arya, then.

“Is he asleep? Can he hear us – Father? Father, are you in there? Is Luwin hiding you?”

My breathing constricts. This isn’t fair, to them or me. I’m not their father. I wasn’t even anyone’s _mother_ in my own world. Luwin glances back at me and I shake my head frantically. _Don’t let them in!_

Luwin looks away, sombre. “Children. Your father is not well. He will see you in time.”

“I want to see Papa!” That is a new voice – young, feminine. Is this Sansa, who made me the fur blanket? I groan, leaning back in my bed, grasping my head. Luwin glances back again, pursing his lips.

“You must be quiet, children. Your father suffers from severe pains in his head. Noise hurts him.”

“Oh!” one of them exclaims, before Luwin orders them back to someone – a Septa, who I remember is like a nun, here – and closes the door. There comes a pounding and a muffled yell, the clanking of armour and then heavy footsteps, fading into the distance.

“I believe the guards have taken them away,” says Luwin, sounding exhausted. He returns to his chair, looking at me in a beseeching manner. “My lord, too long have you laid in here. There are more folk than your family who worry.”

“Who would worry for me?” I ask, though I think carefully. I am taking on Eddard Stark’s life – it’s _my_ life, now. I need to think. “I’m a Lord Paramount,” I recall, frowning. “My vassals?”

“Not only your vassals.”

“…other Lord Paramounts?”

“Not just the other Lord Paramounts,” Luwin replies gravely. I stare at him. Who else might wonder? Luwin leans forwards in the chair, serious. “Your best friend, King Robert Baratheon, rides for Winterfell. He will be here within a moon, if the rains are kind.”

“A moon.” A month. The king will be here in a month…wait. “Best friend?”

“Yes, my lord. You grew up together, fostered together in the Eyrie of the Vale. Lord Jon Arryn was your foster father, though he stays in Kings Landing as Hand of the King, reigning as regent in Robert’s stead.”

“Oh dear,” I say, voice weak. This is not good. How am I meant to fool this man? A king who could lop off my head at worst, not to mention the _best friend_ thing. He won’t be happy to discover I’m not the man he knows. I shut my eyes, my migraine settling for once, barely an ache.

I’ll look weak in front of a king if I stay in bed. My vassals – and the other Lord Paramounts – will be wondering about me. If this world is as violent as I think it is, then the politics might be worse. Fuck, the _politics_. I look to my papers.

My papers. Not Eddard’s papers. _My_ papers.

“I am Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Lord Paramount of the Seven Kingdoms.” I curl my hands into fists, looking at Luwin, who watches me with hawk-like eyes. I got the titles right, it seems. “I need to get out of bed.”

Luwin smiles grimly.

“Then let us get you out of bed, my lord.”


	2. Chapter 2

The first person I meet is my wife.

In my old life, I was a full-on lesbian, so that will help, here. I can grow to love her, most likely – and if not, then I’m keen on becoming her friend. Women sticking together is…well, it’s a good thing. Too bad I’m a man here, though I’m probably going to be far more understanding than she remembers…unless Eddard Stark really, really, _really_ loved his wife and was totally her best friend.

But when I actually see her…I’m stunned. My eyes widen. She gorgeous, beautiful, with faint lines around her eyes – so young, compared to my old soul – and angular cheekbones. The hair, though – the hair is the best part. It’s full-on red, the kind of ginger you think isn’t real until you meet someone with it in real life.

Dressed in a thick dress with three skirts – the topmost embroidered with silver wolves and delicate black threading – and a choking collar, I at first wonder how I’m supposed to breathe. A beautiful women, wearing what looks to me like high-class Ren Faire get-up? Not fair.

“Lady Catelyn, Lord Stark has decided to resume his duties under our combined supervision,” dictates Luwin – using a similar phrase we’d decided on earlier, that he thankfully hadn’t changed to better suit him – before she steps forwards, hesitant. Her voice is quiet, but soft and low. Oh hell, I’m definitely going to love her, eventually.

“My lord husband. I know you do not remember me, but I hope our partnership might be joyous,” she says and I just…

“Sorry,” I say, words falling out of my mouth, “but did you know you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on?”

Her eyes widen dramatically, coloured a dark blue that makes them even more pretty. _You complete lesbian, Ned_ , I think to myself frantically, clearing my throat.

“You’re gorgeous and I’m extremely lucky if you really are my wife. Truly. I’m even better off if you really have been running the North while I was unconscious, because I don’t know what to do in the slightest.”

It all comes out as word vomit. Beautiful woman are awful.

Catelyn seems to be taken by me, though. She reaches out, pressing a hand to my chest. It’s a strange, intimate motion than I don’t know how to react to. I never had a long-term partner before waking up here and now, I’ve got the long-term all set, if not the relationship. Catelyn at least, doesn’t seem to mind the compliment.

Go me. I think I just positively influenced my own marriage.

“Is that what you really think, Ned?” she asks, though she sounds half-enamoured. I nod silently, resisting the urge to look at Luwin. I reach up to her face with my – big, weird, male – hand and watch her close her eyes. She whispers. “I’ve missed you.”

 _No._ My hand slips down in regret, but I cover my slip by pressing it to the hand on my chest. It’s so weird, not having breasts anymore. I was constantly aware of them and now they’re just…not there. I press against her fingers tightly, feeling the warmth in them against my chest.

“I won’t pretend to remember you,” I say quietly, readying my poeticism. Luwin was insistent, when I finally started learning about this world. “But I will treat you as well as I can and honour you as my lady. I don’t know what vows I swore to you when we married. Tell me what they were and I’ll burn them into my mind.”

“Oh, Ned,” she sighs, opening her eyes. She grasps at my hand, drawing me across to the bed. We sit and she describes our wedding. “We were wed at Riverrun, where I grew up. My father, Hoster Tully, led me to you where you waited in the Sept with Jon Arryn – he was marrying my younger sister, Lysa, that same day.”

I frowned minutely. Wasn’t Jon Arryn my foster-father?

“The Septon spoke prayers to the Seven Gods – the New Gods,” she adds hurriedly, “who you do not honour. It would be unfair of me to say otherwise. The Old Gods have been worshipped by the Stark’s for thousands of years.”

“Surely not,” I bark, eyes wide. “How far can I trace that back through my family records?”

“Since the end of the Long Night and even before that, my lord,” Luwin cuts in. I gape.

“You didn’t exactly mention that in our lessons, Master. Thousands of years…that’s so many generations,” I stare into space, shocked at House Stark’s ability to keep records. Why hasn’t there been a Renaissance, already?

Catelyn clears her throat, a little less serene, now. I wince.

“Sorry, my lady.”

“No apologies are needed, my lord,” she eyes me carefully, then continues. “While Jon Arryn married Lysa, we were wed. You replaced my Maiden’s Cloak with your own, bringing me under the protection of House Stark.”

“There were no vows?”

Catelyn tilts her head, reciting, “ _With this kiss I pledge my love and take you as my lord and husband_.”

“I’ll assume I didn’t say _exactly_ that,” I murmur playfully, smiling at her as I think the vow through in my mind. It is not _till death do we part –_ it’s more like _I will love and cherish_. I wonder how the common folk marry, here in Westeros.

Catelyn’s eyes crinkle as she mirrors me. I up the stakes.

“May I pledge it again, Catelyn? For I believe I could love you, if only I knew you.”

“You may,” she says and I get up, turning to kneel down in front of her. I take her hands, acting as if I’m in a Shakespeare, though nerves grip me tight.

“My lady and wife, Catelyn Stark,” I say, planning it out in my head. I kiss her knuckles, then rise to take her cheeks. I whisper to her, knowing that it is a vow I am making myself, sinking deeper and deeper of my own volition into Eddard Stark’s life. “With this kiss I pledge my love.”

I close my eyes as our lips meet. There is a strange barrier that I put down to my beard – soft, oiled and well-cared for, as I have no intention of having a bristle brush all over my face if I did have to have one, my opinion of which _did_ make Luwin confused, to be honest – but kissing is the same in any world. I feel Catelyn’s hands on my shoulders, holding me tight even as I pull away. Our kiss was chaste.

She still looks at me with bright eyes that know _exactly_ what they want.

“My lord husband,” starts Catelyn, voice strong, “I accept your pledge. Now, tell me exactly what Luwin has told you and I will endeavour to expand on your knowledge. If you don’t know your own House’s history, then I’m afraid of what else you’ve forgotten.”

And unwillingly, I crumble, letting the fear show on my face. It makes that brightness in her eyes die.

“I don’t know _anything._ ”

She stares at me.

“Oh.”

“Indeed – _oh._ ”

* * *

Ned is a different person.

Catelyn wonders if this is who he might have been if he had not grown up the way he did, in the shadow of his brother and even his sister, for whom he went to war for. This Ned has never seen war – he had not even seen the sun set until Catelyn took him for a tour of Winterfell. The expression on his face was so clear, compared to what she’s used to. His smile had been _light_ and _new._

There is no more solemnity to him. _Ice,_ which she had kept in their shared quarters, is not a burden so much as an interest. Ned himself seems surprised that he wields it so well, commenting idly on muscle memory before waggling his eyebrows at her. It was so unexpected that Catelyn burst into a fit of giggles, a large smile appearing on the face of her husband at her amusement.

She loves him. She has grown to care for him over the years – and this new state of being will not deter her, especially not when he looks at her with those bright, wondrous eyes as if he is continually asking himself _is this truly my life? My wife?_

Catelyn thinks on those compliments he paid her, often. _Beautiful. Gorgeous_. Her Ned – her _Eddard_ , as Ned calls his past self, as if he were a different person – showed his affection often, but not with words. He would stand close to her and wrap his arm around her waist, supporting her and only ever denying her in private council, where only Maester Luwin or Ser Rodrick might hear.

This Ned, the _new Ned_ , clearly has another language of love. He takes her hand in his own like they are children or young lovers; he kisses her chastely when it seems any sort of appropriate, rather than sparingly; he grins and sends happy smiles her way, at any moment or time.

There is only one thing that makes her worry and it is his reaction to the children.

“I don’t know them, my Cat,” he whispers to her, eyes filled with terror. “A wife is one thing, I can build my marriage with you – but children are another. Please, give me time.”

He refuses to meet them and has actually escaped out of the window once, to avoid meeting Robb when Catelyn tried tricking him into it. The action was comical enough their son forgot to be heart-broken and she has heard tales from the servants about stopping Sansa from clambering out of her own chambers the same way, after her brother’s story.

“It can’t go on, Maester Luwin,” she grieves with the older man, who pats her arm and nods.

“I will speak to him on the matter more. It _has_ been a point of contention to us. Remember that Lord Stark is not himself – he is adamant that he cannot take over fathering the same way,” Maester Luwin warns, “and in a way, he is right in his reasons. He is not a father. He is a man who has discovered he is the father of five whole children and has been pushed into a position of authority and responsibility.”

“I know I am to be kind!” Catelyn exclaims, “But no matter the circumstances, Ned is their father! _All_ five of them,” she says, gritting her teeth at including Jon Snow.

But it is true. She cannot deny it.

Ned however _…_

“That makes no sense,” he says, when staring at the family records. His fingers trace the numbers, mouth shaping the calculations even as his voice is silent. Catelyn, intrigued as to what makes _no sense_ , leans in and asks.

Ned frowns at her.

“Jon. Jon makes no sense. How can he be older than Robb, yet have been born in the South?”

Catelyn blinks, frowning deeply. “I always assumed his mother was one of the serving caste who never returned to Winterfell. I never would have known them, as you wed and bed me before heading off to war.”

Ned’s new sense of humour alights at that, a twitch of his lip suggesting he wants to make an insinuation of some sort, but a familiar grimness settles over him, instead. Strangely, it does not comfort Catelyn to see it.

“Eddard never told you who his mother was. I’ll assume you’re right and apologise, here and now, for the affair.”

It hurts when she forces the words to escape her lips. “I was to marry you brother, Brandon. We were not yet wed – I cannot blame you for liaisons you had up until that day. I offer my own apologies, my lord.”

Ned draws her close, an arm wrapping around her shoulders and his lips pressing to her forehead in comfort. But Catelyn is not stupid and she is not amnesiac, not like her lord; for Ned Stark was not the only Stark in the South, in the days of the war and there is more than just one possibility over whom Jon’s mother was.

Catelyn _had_ always been curious as to how Lyanna died. Now, she knows in her heart, she should have asked long ago. Ned is right. Eddard is gone and all his secrets with him.

Catelyn will keep this one for him.


	3. Chapter 3

I’m raiding the kitchen.

Why? Because in my life, I was a baker and a cook. Westerosi food is nice and my body is used to it, but I want pasta and white bread. I really, _really_ hope they have white flour. Considering the colour of their pie crusts, I’m tempted to believe so. I also hope that I’m not allergic to what I’m about to make.

The kitchen itself is begging to be investigated, too. Their oven is thankfully not the really old type, where you have to basically cement it shut to keep the heat in. Westeros hasn’t gone through a renaissance, but it at least has an oven that can have the temperature adjusted. There’s even a basin of water near the bottom, which if I had to guess, is their way of keeping an eye on the heat – I’ll be horridly disappointed if their oven is so bad that they can’t get over boiling point, though.

Idly wondering if the kitchen staff can read, I don’t at first notice the small figure hiding behind the table as I get the ingredients for bread together. I’ve already stolen the right amount of yeast from their live sample – which is amazing! They have _pre-prepared_ _live yeast_ in their cold storage! It’s wet and it stinks, but it’s _yeast._

“What are you doing?”

I nearly drop the bag of flour.

“The hell?” I mutter, on edge as I twist my head around, spying the blue-eyed girl opposite me after a bit of peering. “Who are you?”

As soon as I ask, it occurs to me who she is. The red hair is familiar, as are the eyes; Sansa is a carbon-copy of her mother, but with Eddard’s lips and brow, a scowl I recognise from the mirror forming across her face.

“I’m Sansa. You’re my father. Why are you in the kitchen?”

“Why are _you?_ ” I turn the question on her, watching her cheeks go red. “Shouldn’t you be abed?”

“… _mm-case_.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” I ask politely, unable to hear her mumblings.

“Lemoncakes!”

“Lemoncakes?” I repeat, eyes widening. My heart stops still. They have fresh fruit and enough sugar to make _lemon drizzle cake?_ This, I have to investigate…I glance at my workspace, full of ingredients for a simple white loaf. I was planning to let it rise overnight and leave it for the bakers to investigate in the morning.

Lemon drizzle, though…

“What are you doing?” Sansa asks me, my focus returning as I meet her eyes again. I hesitate, not wanting to interact with Eddard’s children, but I’ve been metaphorically caught red-handed. I have a feeling that Eddard’s children are adventurous little sprites, if some stories I’m hearing are correct. Luwin said that Sansa especially has been influenced by my actions, lately.

“Making bread,” I answer truthfully, “and hopefully pasta.” I’m planning on making that to eat, tonight. Maybe with butter, maybe with white sauce – if I can find the milk, that is. There was none in the cold storage room. Maybe Sansa will know.

“What’s _pasta?_ ”

“…would you like to find out?”

That is how I, Ned Stark, end up making a bread mix and fresh pasta with Sansa. The guardsman that catches us after Sansa starts giggling too loud is dumbfounded. We’re both covered in flour, a pot is boiling in the background with our pasta and I even managed to find the lemons, though not sugar, to add to some cold tea I brewed and forgot about when Sansa showed up.

I put my finger to my lips, eyes meeting the guard’s.

“I’m sure you want to tell everyone about this, but if you don’t, you can have pasta and lemon tea with us, right now.”

“Lord Stark…” the guard mumbles, glancing out into the corridor before stepping inside and shutting the door. Sansa grins at him, holding up her cold tea.

“Drink for you?”

“Uh,” the guard stares, obviously confused, “Yes?”

Sansa looks my way seriously, looking adorable. “Father, we need more tea.”

I nod to her solemnly. “Yes. We do.”

The guard, who I learn is a young man by the name of Derrin, is a Wintertown native who takes to the pasta, but not the tea. Oh well. More tea for me. Sansa gives Derrin a dirty look before taking the lemon slice right out of his mug, grumbling to herself as I serve up pasta and white sauce in three bowls. Derrin is rightly impressed, but Sansa is messier, getting sauce in her hair and over her nightgown – and it’s the last, plus her obvious tiredness, that has her bursting into tears on me.

I know these are not my children, not really – but I can’t leave her like that. So, I swoop down, lifting her up and letting her wrap her arms around my neck, getting sauce over my tunic and not caring a jot as she cries herself to sleep on my shoulder.

“Can you do me a favour?” I ask of Derrin, who shoots to his feet, eager and enthusiastic. “Either fetch one of the household to clean this all up for me and tell them they can have the tea and pasta as payment, or clean it up yourself and get the same reward.”

Derrin, who I had seen eyeing up the rest of the pasta greedily, nods rapidly, already rolling his sleeves up. “Yes, Lord Stark.”

“My thanks, Derrin.”

“It’s my pleasure, milord, honestly,” Derrin smiles a little, before it twists into an expression of worry. “Do you know your way to Lady Sansa’s nursery, my lord?”

“Yes,” I lie.

Luckily for me, I get all the way to the Stark family quarters before caving, attracting a nearby guard and asking for directions. Our appearances will probably attract some attention – I wouldn’t be surprised if Derrin eventually cleared up the mystery and I wouldn’t blame him for it, either.

Sansa, a heavy, warm mound against my chest, barely stirs when I use handy bowl of water to clean her up. I remember when Susanne was this age – I used to look after her for my sister, cooing at her and feeling jealous that I couldn’t keep her. Tending to Sansa, I realise something stark: I _can_ keep Sansa. Susanne is gone – I’ll never see her again, as a child or an adult, but Sansa, Arya, Bran and even the older ones, Robb and Jon, they’re _mine_.

“Oh,” I murmur in the quiet of the nursery, before putting Sansa to bed. My thoughts are heavy when I finally join Catelyn in our room, my arms wrapping around her by-now familiar curves.

My children.

 _My_ children.

Not Eddard’s children, not a stranger’s family – _my_ children, _my_ family. I hold Catelyn tighter. This is my second chance. I’m not going to screw it up.

Tomorrow, I’m going to meet my progeny.

* * *

The children shuffle into Lord Stark’s solar, clutching each other’s hands. Jon looks nervously to Robb, who is listening to Sansa’s story about cooking at midnight intently; though Jon doesn’t know why he does, seeing as it’s more likely Sansa dreamt it all up.

Their father’s solar has, in recent years, become a classroom for Robb and Jon as much as it is their father’s office. His heavy desk is the centrepiece of the room, carved with wolves that have their eyes painted a myriad of different colours. In comparison to the rest of room, perhaps only the tapestries could compare – or even _Ice_ , where it rests casually against the wall. The Valyrian steel shimmers faintly in the light and as ever, Jon wishes he could have a blade that great.

“Children,” Lady Stark calls out, composed as she attracts their attentions. Jon shrinks somewhat, not wanting her eyes on him – they always hold such scorn and hatred. But it is not to be. Their eyes meet, blue versus violet. To Jon’s surprise, Lady Stark is filled with sadness. It is clear in the creases by her eyes and the low dipping of her smile.

“Mother, why are we here?” Robb asks, before Arya latches onto his jerkin, tugging harshly. Robb grumbles, picking her up as Lady Stark watches on fondly. Jon grins secretively – Arya is wild and wily, far more than even enthusiastic Sansa.

“Your father has asked to meet you.”

Jon’s smile dies, shocked eyes meeting Robb’s for a single moment before they look to Lady Stark, who is distracted by Sansa as the young girl barrels into her, climbing up onto her lap.

“Father!” Sansa exclaims, eager, “Where is he?”

“Maester Luwin will bring him here,” Lady Stark tells her, brushing her daughter’s hair back behind her ear. Beside each other, there’s no way to deny either are related. Sansa shares her mother’s red colouring and half of her face, besides. “He is greeting little Bran, first and fetching Theon.”

Jon recoils. “ _Theon?_ ” he questions, disgruntled. Only when Lady Stark looks his way does he realise his error, flushing. “I- I’m sorry for speaking out of turn, Lady Stark.”

“…no, speak as you will, Jon,” she says, voice soft. It’s the same voice she uses with her young children, with Robb and Sansa. Jon is unusually hurt, hearing it directed his way. “I am the one who should say sorry to you,” Lady Stark continues, “for it is not your fault for being born. Your father is the one at fault, for betraying me…and he is not the man that comes to see you all here, this morn.”

“He is not?” Robb asks, stricken. “So, it _is_ true. He does not remember us!”

Lady Stark reaches out and Robb eagerly steps forwards, letting her cup his cheek as Arya wraps her arms around his neck, oblivious to the seriousness off the conversation.

“No, sweetling. Your father is a new person, a stranger. It is why he did not come to see you, any of you,” says Lady Stark, her gaze falling on Jon where he stands, on the outside of the group. Her hand drifts from Robb’s face, out and down, to him.

To _Jon._

“Jon, come here,” she says, quiet. Jon steps forwards mechanically, though all he wants to do is run. Lady Stark is scaring him with her kind words. What deception is this? What trick is she trying to play? Lady Stark has been kind to him before, but she has never managed to keep it up for long.

He steps close, her hand brushing his tunic. Heart thundering in his ears, Jon waits for her verdict.

“I owe you so much. I have wronged you – you, a little boy mere months older than Robb,” she whispers, Jon’s eyes widening.

He is older than Robb!

“I will not pretend to be your mother,” she says, voice strange, “but I would have you call me _aunt_. You are part of this household.”

Jon’s eyes sting. “Really?” he asks, choked.

Lady Stark nods before setting Sansa down on the ground, ignoring Robb’s wide eyes as she brings him into her embrace. Jon latches on tightly, outright sobbing. This is all he ever wanted. Approval. _Family_. Her arms are warm and strong, as if she has no intention of letting go – but she does, when the door to the solar opens. Jon turns to look and there he is.

Father.

At his side is Theon, who looks rather uneasy, though it does not compare to how shaken and wan Lord Stark seems. His eyes flit from Jon, to Robb, to Sansa, to Arya, to Lady Stark and back, again and again. His hands clench into fists briefly, before he breathes in deeply and steps forwards, sinking down to one knee.

“Hello,” he says shortly.

He speaks no more than that.

It is Sansa who breaks the silence, letting out a happy noise before barrelling straight into their father’s chest. He embraces her, dropping a kiss down on her head reflexively, before blinking in confusion at his own actions. Jon takes heart from it, calming.

 _His body remembers actions, like sword-fighting,_ the boy thinks, _even if his memories are gone._ Jon has not seen his father in person since before his accident – even when he trains, it is always early in the morning or late at night, when Jon and Robb are both abed.

Summoning his courage, Jon steps forth, Robb a half-step behind him. It is an old instinct to halt as Robb and Arya enter the huddle and Jon does not fight it; despite Lady Stark’s blessing, Jon still fears what he longs for the most. After all, Lord Stark has never stopped his lady wife from treating him as she did.

At the edge of the room, Theon shuffles his way, coming to stand near Jon. He even reaches to tug him back, as if to remind him of his place. Jon looks to the floor, ashen. Lady Stark is not saying anything. Jon chastises himself.

 _What did I expect from Lady Stark’s words? She asked me to call her ‘aunt’, not ‘mother’ – I am a cousin, a bastard. Not a son and brother._ Tears prick at his eyes and he chances a look at Lord Stark. _I just want to see Father and make sure he is well._

“This is Arya,” Robb says, introducing the young girl enthusiastically as her arms wave about, reaching. “She has missed you so!”

“I can see that,” murmurs Lord Stark, before he sets Sansa down and takes Arya onto his hip. She grasps his neck tightly, head disappearing into the collar of his white shirt. Only now does Jon realise that Lord Stark is particularly underdressed, wearing breeches, boots and a shirt, with no tunic, vest or cloak in sight. Even _Jon_ is wearing more.

Beside him, Theon leans down and whispers harshly, “He’s not who he looks like. He’s strange and foreign to the Lord Stark we knew. Get ready, Snow. You’re about to be sent away.”

Theon’s taunts did not used to send terror running through his veins. He has been threatened like this before and then, Jon knew his words were lies; his father loved him and had always treated him well – he would never send Jon away.

But now – but now, with this amnesiac Lord Stark who only knows Jon from tales and woes, what is his opinion of a bastard? Will Jon be left adrift, with no home to call his own? Will he be sent away or banished?

He watches Lord Stark play with Arya, tease Sansa and grin at Robb, eyes alight like stars have been born within them. His gaze turns to Jon once – and there is faint curiosity there, but no alarm or regret or _guilt_ when Robb distracts him again. Jon feels disregarded… _abandoned._

Theon’s taunts did not used to scare him.

They do now.


	4. Chapter 4

Enchanting.

That’s the word I’d used to describe my children. They are happy rascals who clearly adore Eddard – adore _me_ , who takes his place in this dark, medieval world. Sansa is sweet and cherubic; Robb is talkative and starry-eyed, clearly in awe of me; Brandon is so young and _new_ , barely able to recognise me; and Arya is exuberant, with a burning curiosity that I recognise as something she inherits from Catelyn.

Theon Greyjoy, the twelve year old ward of House Stark, is petty and angry. Knowing his story well from Maester Luwin’s lecture, I had met with him earlier, explaining to him my plans for him; he knows he will be spending time at White Harbour before being taken out to sea for a year, working the trade routes from the North to Braavos across the Narrow Sea. He had been confused and more than a little resentful – he’d even accused me of attempting to murder him, until I told him it was either that, or an eternal residential stay at Last Hearth.

To be honest, the idea of taking him hostage was great in theory. Fostering ties between loyal and rebelling nations, yada, yada, etcetera, etcetera – except, Theon’s nearest peer in age is the heir to the North, who is several years younger than him. Theon is the ‘older, wiser influence’ for Robb presently, when in reality it needs to be the opposite way around, considering how Theon is the hostage, here.

So yeah – things are definitely changing.

Frankly, hosting Theon at Winterfell won’t work in the long run and after a few days of pressuring Maester Luwin, I get the old man’s approval, too – he sees exactly what I do. Theon’s new choices of living with Smalljon Umber as his older foster-brother or potentially living a life at sea like his ancestors – but with better political ties – is an excellent offer in return for leaving my new children the hell alone.

After Theon chose Whiteharbour, I went to my solar to meet my children; and then I did, greeting all of them, bar one. Jon. My bastard son. The ‘single shame’ to my name, Jon had stayed at the edge of the room and I’m not even sure he realised he was quite literally backing himself into a corner.

“I need to see him separately,” I tell Catelyn afterwards, trying not to make the encounter so awkward. My beautiful wife has had a change of heart, of kinds – she’d told me of her treatment of little Jon and I’d been terribly afraid my wife was a horrendous monster, for a moment. Apparently, she’s decided to re-evaluate her parenting strategies.

Hurrah.

Running a hand through my beard, I attempt to reason it well. “He is my son and I would treat him the same as Robb or Brandon – but I cannot do that if he will cower so, expecting different.”

Catelyn nods shortly, expression hidden. “It is your right. I will not hinder you.” Catelyn does one better than offering advice, having the guards call Jon to our bedchamber, where Luwin, Catelyn and I have been having our regular meetings.

My wife does not stay, when Jon finally arrives. I don’t know why and honestly, I’m not sure I want to, either.

Jon is definitely related to me. There are clear similarities, like the black of our hair and the shape of our faces. The eyes are different – but our brows the same. I even recognise his frown when he arrives, having seen it in the mirror so many times, now.

I can’t believe it’s been three whole weeks since I woke. _Three_ _whole weeks._

“Lord Stark,” he greets me formally, bowing slightly. I wince while he can’t see. “You summoned me?”

“Jon Snow,” I greet, voice low and gravelly. Our eyes are not the same colour. I wonder at the absurdity in genetics that would let him have purple irises. But there is something I have to say and I cannot resist, though I know he will not understand the reference.

“I am your father,” I say, “and you will call me that. Every time. Formal functions be damned. I am always _father_ to you, not Lord Stark. You’re my family, my son in every way. I do not know you, nor do I know your brothers or your sisters – but I will grow to love you all the same, as _my_ progeny, as _my_ children. You are my son, Jon and don’t ever forget it.”

His lip wobbles.

Shizer.

Reaching out to him, I half pull him onto my lap and half catch him as we go for a hug at the same time. I pet his hair, feeling the shaking of his shoulders.

“Really?” I hear him whisper, “Really?”

“Yes,” I say quietly, soothingly. “I am all the parent you ever need. I don’t remember your mother, Jon and unless she shows up trying to claim you, one day, I’ll never know her name or who she was. So, I offer myself, all of me alone, as mother and father. Though, _mostly_ just father, because I’m a man.”

He giggles, leaning back and smiling brightly. I recognise his grin. Arya grins like that, too.

Tugging one of his dark curls behind his ear, I press a fond kiss to his forehead. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Good. You’re my son and I’m going to take care of you,” I say quietly, giving him one last hug before lifting him off my knees. “Go, run along now – unless you have something else to say?”

He shakes his head rapidly, grinning joyfully. “No, Father!” He chirps, before rushing out the door, his laughter echoing through the corridors as he leaves my presence. Wow.

What a kid.

When I talk with Catelyn again, I reiterate what I said, affirming my decision to treat them the same.

“And his inheritance?” She questions, tentative. It’s clearly a worrisome topic for her, but I only shrug – it’s not a worry to me.

“What’s Arya getting? If my second-eldest is getting Winterfell should anything unfortunate happen to Robb, then Jon can get whatever Arya gets.”

Catelyn makes a noise, somewhat like a laugh, despite her expression. “Husband, it is _Bran_ who will inherit after Robb. Not Sansa.”

“Why not?” I challenge, raising an eyebrow at her. “She’s just as much a Stark as Robb or Bran. Without women, we wouldn’t be here – why shouldn’t she be second in line?”

My wife seems dumbfounded, staring at me with wide eyes.

Invigorated, I continue. “I’m Lord Paramount, it’s my right to make these…rulings. You teach girls to run households while their future husbands are away at war and councils, they _know_ what to do. You yourself were regent for me, while I was ill!”

“Ned-”

“Sansa could be great,” I enthuse, taking Catelyn’s hands in my own, gripping them tight. I’m on a roll. I can’t stop now. “She could have her own estate, somewhere in the North – a backup, I’ll admit, but she’d be free to do as she wished. Arya, too! Bran- Bran is a baby, but could you imagine it? The three of them and then Jon, Robb’s peer and brother – he could become a knight or marry someone like Sansa, who holds responsibilities of her own.”

“ _Ned_ ,” Catelyn stops me, reaching to my cheek. She swallows deeply. “I hear your words and I understand them, but tradition, Ned…”

“Today shouldn’t be ruled by the past,” I say to her, “Not everything. Think of Sansa. Do you really want her to- do you really want her to be the submissive, meek wife of a lord? She climbed out a window some few days ago, Catelyn. Her spirit is as fiery as her hair. As you.”

I tug on a bright red strand, reaching to kiss her cheek. Catelyn flushes a little, then nods.

“You _are_ Lord Paramount. I want the best for Sansa…and if she is now the true heir to her brother’s seat of power, then she is a more powerful piece in politics than she was before.”

 _Politics,_ I think the word faintly, only realising the impact of my decision here and now. Nodding silently, I kiss my wife on the lips softly, thankful for her support.

But as we part, she says in a low warning voice, “Tell it to only our closest allies. Umber, Karstark, Manderly, Bolton and Dustin. Until King Robert has been and gone, we keep this information only in the highest council of the North. I remember Robert to be a…ungainly man. Boisterous. I did not like him, though before the accident, you loved him like a brother.”

“I will write the letters tonight,” I promise, asking, “Look over them for me?”

“Of course,” Catelyn smiles, pressing her own fond kiss to my lips. “I am always yours, my lord.”

Smiling right back at her, I return the favour in a low voice. “My lady.” And then those small kisses become a _little_ more heated. She pushes me up against our bed, taking control and I grin in anticipation.

What can I say?

I love being married.


	5. Chapter 5

_Damn the clouds, damn the weather – and damn all the gods that brought it!_

Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, yada, yada, yada, is not pleased. In fact, he is thoroughly pissed at the world and at the moment, is the _most_ pissed with the iron gate guarding Winterfell and its surrounding town. Frozen stuck, ice from the cold night hasn’t had time to melt and it’s holding up his party. Clearly, they haven’t been oiled properly.

“Hurry up, you damn blighter!” Robert snaps at it, though the peasants and guardsmen face the brunt of his anger. The gate unsticks with little fanfare some short minutes later, when pots of hot water are thrown at the bolts and still-stuck gears. Robert kicks his horse onwards, muttering to himself, “I’m coming, Ned.”

When Robert heard of Ned’s accident, he made for Winterfell immediately. He wanted to be there, whether he arrived at Ned’s deathbed, to his funeral or his smiling face; it was a blow, when he finally heard of Ned’s memory loss from a raven sent ahead of him. A Ned with no memories meant a brother lost – and Robert has already had to deal with old Jon turning into a curmudgeon as his Hand.

Robert almost stops short at the sight of him. Ned is barely dressed, a fur-lined coat thrown over a thin shirt – he’s rubbing sleep from his eyes, albeit with a straight back as he squints at Robert atop his warhorse. A few members of the household are by his side, hardly the fanfare Robert expected…somehow, for all his complaining at the trouble, Robert seems to have come to like it all. The lack makes him bristly.

“Ned!” He greets sharply, climbing off his tired horse with a short breath, lungs taxed in the cold air and from all the weight on his front. The household kneel. Ned…

Ned bows. And it’s not a courtly bow. His back barely bends at all, unpolished and a portent for days to come. Ned has always been a stickler for rules and customs – to see him so unknowingly ignorant of things pounded into them by their fathers and by Jon Arryn as boys is a further bucket of cold water down Robert’s spine.

“King Robert,” Ned replies, the unsteadiness in his voice clear. He doesn’t know how to treat him. “Welcome to Winterfell. My hearth and home are yours.”

“Ned.” Robert repeats his name quietly, stepping forwards and squeezing at his shoulder. He can’t help but look in his eyes for something, for _any_ spark of his brother. But there is nothing – and desperate, Robert blurts out a stupendous order. “Take me to the crypt.”

Ned frowns. “Why?” he asks, guarded, eyes flashing. He’s taken aback and furious at the same time.

“Lyanna,” Robert tries to save the conversation, cursing under his breath at his failings. He’s here for Ned, not for her – not this time. “Come. Let’s have some privacy. Her grave is as good as any solar.”

The Stark resists the faint pressure on his shoulder, urging him towards the crypts, but only for a moment. He turns with Robert, looking to a nearby housekeeper. “Keep this quiet, Brenna. Ask my lady if the whole family might meet for breakfast, at the usual time.”

The housekeeper – Brenna, a finely beautiful, if older, woman, with her wheat-coloured hair in a braid over her shoulder and a crude pendant carved from the familiar white wood of a Heart-Tree – bobs her head, rising from her low curtsey to Robert. “It’ll be done, Lord Stark.”

“Thank-you,” says Ned kindly, before not-so-subtly moving out of Robert’s reach. It’s then that Robert notices the steel greatsword at his back, like an oblivious fool. Why hadn’t he noticed it before?

And why was Ned wearing it at all?

“This way.” Ned looks back over his shoulder at Robert briefly, assessing him for a long moment before walking onwards, to the entrance to the crypts. Robert is silent as they pass his guards and those few household staff.

Once down in the crypt, a new-old hatred begins to burn in his gut. That Lyanna is buried down here in the dark and deep instead of somewhere bright – somewhere with those blue winter roses, maybe – always makes him think of why: _Rhaegar._ All those Targaryen’s and their lurid ways. Lyanna should have been his wife, his lady of Storm’s End.

When they reach her statue, carved in her likeness, Ned reaches forwards to put a hand on hers, gently brushing the cold stone. Robert’s anger is fuelled by the notion. Ned should have his sister, she never should have died at all, Lyanna should be _here-_

“I don’t remember her.”

Ned’s words jar Robert back to reality in an instant.

“I don’t know what her face was like or what kind of pudding she favoured,” says Ned, almost wistful. There’s none of the guilt or regret Robert remembers. Without his memories, Ned has no way to grieve, Robert realises. When Ned merely pats Lyanna’s statue in regret, that thought clarifies even more and frankly, Robert can’t help but think of the Targaryen’s again – how Ned fought him on the brutality of the children’s deaths and left the capital in disgust. They didn’t speak again until two years hence, when Robert’s first son with Cersei was birthed stillborn and he wrote Ned, pouring out his feelings onto paper.

“You honestly don’t remember,” Robert says, astonished. “You don’t remember Lyanna. Or Brandon. Or your parents.”

“No.”

“You don’t remember the wars – my rebellion or the Greyjoy’s,” he pushes, Ned visibly bristling and turning to glare at him, a familiar fire that doesn’t belong to his old Quiet Wolf burning through him.

“No. I don’t remember any of it.”

Robert sees purple eyes and blood-splattered hair, red on white. “You don’t remember Rhaegar kidnapping your sister and leaving her to die in a tower – you _don’t remember that?_ ”

“ _NO, I DON’T!”_ Ned yells in his face and Robert is almost dizzy with putrid satisfaction. Ned never shouts. Ned is always stone-faced and at most, snaps at him when talked into a corner. He gives in, trying to be honourable and noble and failing in the face of so much _shit._ To hear him yell breathes life in Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms.

He grasps at his arm, gripping tight. “You’re not my brother, but I like this new you!” Robert grins, letting but a harsh laugh. “Maybe you’d even agree with me instead of old Jon, this time!”

“Depends on the argument,” says Ned, eyes still locked on Robert’s. Instead of a mountain, this Ned is a battering ram.

Robert crows inside for this Ned, even as he mourns the old one.

“You should have heard us – our shouting could be heard throughout the Red Keep!” Robert revels, boasting even though he knows the outcome of that specific battle wasn’t to his liking. “They call the boy, Viserys Targaryen, the Beggar King now. He trades the treasures of his family for paltry coin and I ordered Jon Arryn to bring me his head, that and the body of the babe, Daenerys.”

Robert pats Ned’s arm, enthused by his own words enough that he does not doubt his brother will agree with him, now he’s changed.

“Jon refused, of course. I was adamant, though and the Spider promised it would be done. I’ve heard no news yet – Jon will be fuming when he hears! – but I hold out hope that the final lot of Dragonspawn will be dealt with.” Robert calms only a touch as he says, “Lyanna will be avenged.”

“Avenged?” Ned croaks, like he is questioning everything about the word.

“Aye, brother,” Robert presses their foreheads together. “Her, your brother and your father. With the last of the Targaryen’s gone-”

Then Ned does the unthinkable, pushing Robert away with a muffled yell. His gaze is poisonous, his glare full of that fire, but this time- this time, it is aimed at Robert.

“No!” He repeats himself, reaching for the sword on his back. He withdraws it fluidly, with grace Robert can no longer match – if Robert had a weapon at all. He has a hunting knife at his belt and nothing more. Ned steps back, sword barely an inch away from Robert’s breast. “Get out.”

Pale, Robert asks him, “What is this?”

Ned’s furor isn’t calmed. At all. “ ** _Get_** _**OUT!** ”_

And Robert backs away, stumbling up the stairs to the crypt and falling on his backside on the last step. Mud soaks his trousers, the cold wet seeping into his doublet. In the courtyard, mere feet away, the Kingsguard – Ser Boros Blount and Prestyn Greenfield alone, who accompanied him North while the others remained with the Queen and children in Kings Landing – stare at his bedraggled form and only lift their swords when Ned presses his own to Robert’s belly.

“I want you to leave Winterfell,” the Stark demands, lips pressed in a hard line until the moment he bears his teeth like a real wolf. “Kings don’t kill babies! Kings should not even _think_ of killing children! No man, woman or child should ever, _ever_ send assassins after bairns that young – or ever, for that matter! I don’t know what kind of world you live in, South of the Neck, but here- here, that _doesn’t go._ It never will, under my watch.”

“Ned! Stop this, before my Whitecloaks stick you!” Robert roars, but it isn’t much of a threat. He can see it, on either side – his guards going for Ned and the Stark men grabbing them by their own pale cloaks. “Fucking idiots!”

The greatsword digs into his doublet and Robert, for the first time in years, feels the sting of cold steel.

“Leave Winterfell.” Ned commands, a stranger to him. His eyes are empty of compassion. “Leave the North. If you ever – _ever_ – come back here to say such things to me again, I’ll do worse than get your clothes dirty and give you a slice to the belly.”

The world rumbles between his ears. Robert sees red as he gets to his feet, arms still, yet itching for his hammer. He wishes he never let it go, after the Greyjoy’s rebelled. He doesn’t even know where it is.

“Are you threatening your King, Stark?”

More bared teeth. More threats – and more watchers.

“I am warning _a_ king,” snarls his former friend, emphasis clear. His greatsword is adjusted, held back in a readied stance. “For I, certainly, do not know any King by the name of Robert Baratheon.”

“You’ll regret this, Stark,” Robert grinds out. He jerks his hand, commanding the Stark soldiers, “Let them go. We’re departing. Immediately. It seems that the Stark in Winterfell is not the man I remembered.”

“Aye, you’d be right there,” says Ned, hostile and unafraid.

Oh, Robert will see that he fears him. He will.

“You have until I return to Kings Landing to give your sincere apologies,” Robert snaps, before turning on his heel, trusting that even this stranger will not strike him down by the rear. Ned never was such a coward.

Robert has a feeling that this one isn’t either.


End file.
